


Doing your own stitches? Suture self!

by luchia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/pseuds/luchia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre works on Christmas, and Joly is in agreement: being a doctor on Christmas is full of surprises and stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing your own stitches? Suture self!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satb31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/gifts).



If ever there was a time for slowly shaking your head at a patient’s injuries, it’s Christmas.

“How was I supposed to know that was the on button?” Combeferre’s patient says, sulking like a tiny child. He watches Combeferre work with blurred eyes. His wife has been glaring at Combeferre’s patient this entire time, and the patient seems to be too high on painkillers to notice it.

The amount of painkillers is fairly justifiable, considering he drilled a hole in his hand.

“It has a _trigger_ , Eric,” the wife says. “How could that _not_ be the on button? You do not have to put the drill bit _against your hand_ to make sure it’s in, you don’t have to-”

“A power drill is a very complex tool,” his patient says.

Christmas brings people like Eric in, who get exciting new presents and have absolutely no clue how to use them. 

“If it makes you feel better, I had a man in earlier who cut off a finger with a short chainsaw,” Combeferre offers.

“A short chainsaw,” Eric’s wife says, and frowns. “Why would you want a _short_ chainsaw?”

“I have no idea, but I hope it was worth a finger,” Combeferre says, smiling slightly, and finishes tying off the temporary bandages on the patient’s hand. It’ll do, for now.

Power Drill Eric is followed by a four year old who shoved a jelly bean up her nose for some reason, and there’s then an unfortunate soul who managed to stomp a Christmas tree light through her bare foot, and the parade of people who really need to read the instruction manual just keeps on going until they close.

Undeniably the funniest patient is one Combeferre only gets to hear about, not see. A man wrapped himself up as a present for Christmas, and unfortunately decided to use cables for some reason, which can’t be cut with your standard set of scissors, so they had to bring him to the clinic to cut him free.

Joly is nearly in tears sharing the story, clinging hard to the arms of his plastic chair in the break room. “And then – and _then_ , in comes the poor guy’s _mom_ ,” Joly says.

Combeferre doesn’t know if he should wince or laugh, but there’s no choice, really – Joly’s laughter is infectious in the best way, a bright burst of happiness even on a dark night full of people who should really, really know better.

“That’s just _one_ of the stories. Christmas is the best, I love working on Christmas,” Joly says. “And do you know what’s even more wonderful about working on Christmas?”

“I genuinely don’t,” Combeferre says, smiling.

“I can do nothing but injuries all day,” Joly says, and pumps a fist into the air.

Joly is an orthopedic doctor, but still volunteers constantly at the little free clinic they’ve all dreamed of creating, and finally made a reality. Combeferre works here full time, and Joly comes as often as he can, but he has other duties.

Joly is the most law-abiding Robin Hood to ever live. He’s young, but absolutely brilliant, a rising star in the orthopedic theater, and people pay a lot of money for treatment. He doesn’t technically have a major say in prices, considering he works at a hospital, but he _does_ have a say in what he does with all the money he makes.

Their free clinic is nonprofit in all of the worst ways, along with the good ones. It is a humbling fact that there have been more than a few months where they’ve stayed afloat solely because of Joly giving them all of his bone doctor money.

(And Combeferre tries to not call it _bone doctor money_ but everyone else does and it’s unbearably catchy.)

“Oh! Right,” Joly says out of nowhere, and quickly hops out of his chair to scrounge through his bag, and oh no.

Combeferre didn’t buy him a present.

They’ve _never_ done presents. Not actual presents. Not since the very first year after graduating college and they were all too broke to afford anything. Courfeyrac had led the charge and loudly announced that his friends were the best present he could ever receive, and every year since has been celebrated by one horribly misguided, extremely loud, and impossibly drunk party.

But they’re adults now. Combeferre is either a _Doctor_ or a _Mister_ when introduced. There is no sign of adulthood more blatant than that. Do adults buy each other presents? Does Combeferre need to buy Joly a present? Oh god, what would he even buy Joly if he did? The man has absolutely everything he could want, aside from maybe another cat and Combeferre just can’t bring himself to inflict a fourth cat on Bossuet. Or, more accurately, Bossuet on a fourth cat.

A present would be appropriate just as a thank you after all of his work and money and giving _so much_. Combeferre absolutely should’ve bought him a present. He should’ve bought Joly a thousand presents, except they have nowhere near the budget to manage that. A thousand small thank yous, maybe.

Thank you for being one of the people who had to go out and fight to be successful in a way you didn’t want to originally. Thank you for always staying, no matter how much money other cities and hospitals offer you. Thank you for your cheer and kindness and somehow keeping it together in a germ-filled not quite emergency room environment instead of your beautifully sterile bone doctor world.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says.

Joly laughs, looking over his shoulder at Combeferre. “Oh, don’t thank me just yet. Close your eyes.”

Combeferre frowns. “Why?”

“Just trust me,” Joly says, and Combeferre can’t say no to that. He closes his eyes, and listens to the sound of Joly’s sensibly-shod feet moving towards him, stopping directly in front of Combeferre in a muted rustle of scrubs.

“Please don’t draw on my face,” Combeferre says, entirely to make Joly laugh again.

“Do you really think I’d risk having you prank me back?” Joly asks, and puts something on top of Combeferre’s head. “No, no, relax, this’ll be great!”

“I trust you,” Combeferre says firmly, because it is very true and he refuses to feel even a little bit otherwise.

Joly’s hand lingers just a little too long in Combeferre’s hair, fingertips pressing delicately against the back of his head.

He leans in to the touch, just slightly, his thoughts blinking out and focusing solely on this, thinking, _oh._

“Right, okay, that’s fine,” Joly says, and moves away. “Open your eyes!”

Combeferre does, and can’t help but stare for a moment, because Joly is in a Santa hat, with a big fake Santa beard, and has his phone out and pointed straight at Combeferre’s face.

It’s not quite frantic when Combeferre’s fingers jerk up to his cheeks to feel that no, Joly didn’t put him in a beard too. No, instead he put Combeferre in a soft set of reindeer antlers, which are probably very inaccurate but adorable.

“I’m so glad I took a picture of that reaction,” Joly says, still laughing lightly. It looks ridiculous beneath the equally ridiculous white beard. He quickly turns the phone around to ensure that Combeferre sees the picture – his eyes are wide, hands grabbing at the antlers, and it really _is_ adorable.

Joly quickly comes around to crouch next to Combeferre, obviously ready to take another picture, and Combeferre should be watching more closely, but instead he ends up tracking the small excited stutter in every move Joly makes.

“This is going on the internet as soon as possible,” Joly says, and smiles up at the camera, snapping a picture with far too much flash, and then another. After the second, he turns to give Combeferre an exasperated look. “Smile at the camera, Combeferre, it’s not that difficult.”

“I really can’t take you seriously with that beard on,” Combeferre says.

“There should never be anything _serious_ about dressing up for a ridiculous Christmas picture,” Joly says, and throws an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders, beaming at the camera. “Now _smile!_ ”

Combeferre does.

It’s already late, a long day of doctoring behind them, and he really doesn’t know how Joly keeps himself upbeat and moving, particularly when he’s in the clinic instead of somewhere with a professional cleaning crew instead of everyone mopping up to the best of their ability at the end of the day. Their abilities are pretty good, of course, but still.

That’s why Joly’s question isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“Would you like to get dinner with me maybe?” Joly asks, something oddly nervous in his voice.

Combeferre stretches, and stands, heading towards his own small cupboard and pulling his very official white doctor coat off finally. “I’d be happy to. I don’t know what will be open at this hour on Christmas, though.”

“Actually, I didn’t mean right now,” Joly asks. “I meant in a more formal way, sort of like a date.”

Combeferre goes very still.

This isn’t a conversation he ever thought he’d have with Joly.

It is very true that Joly is attractive – all of his friends are. It’s almost unfair. And saying Combeferre admires Joly is an incredible understatement. He thinks Joly is amazing, and generous, and funny, and is always so much happier when Joly is around. He loves working in the clinic with him. They’ve been friends for years and years, and Joly has always been a pleasure to be around.

Combeferre really, really likes Joly.

“I know you’re doing that thing where you think things through, but if you could give me any sort of response, I’d really appreciate it,” Joly says.

Carefully, Combeferre turns around, frowning.

Joly looks very, very nervous, even beneath the ridiculous beard, and Combeferre is fairly certain that this is quite possibly the most serious moment of his life that will ever happen while having antlers on his head and talking to a man in a halfhearted Santa costume.

“The answer is yes, I’d very much like that. But now I’m just trying to figure out how long this has been going on,” Combeferre says, and moves towards Joly to pull that ridiculous beard down. “I can’t take you seriously with that thing on, it’s like talking to someone who strapped a lamb to their face.”

“When have I ever asked you to take me seriously?” Joly asks.

“True,” Combeferre concedes with a smile. “But I just want to make sure that this isn’t-”

“It isn’t,” Joly says quickly. “I’ve been trying to ask for a while now, and you just seem really happy and comfortable with me and that’s _nice_ and I want to keep having that happen with you for a long time. You are just so great.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says.

He has no idea what comes next. They’ve been friends for years. How do you suddenly switch from friendship to something more? How do you do any sort of dating thing? Oh god, Combeferre hasn’t been on a date in a very long time. A _very_ long time.

“So just let me know when would work for you and we can arrange things and I’ll see you at the party tomorrow,” Joly says, a burst of nervous words, and he’s already heading towards the door.

Combeferre rushes to catch him. He hadn’t noticed there are bells on the antlers, god, he jingles violently as he catches Joly’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what to say, other than knowing he wants to say _something_. He settles on, “Thank you for asking because I never would’ve asked and I actually really like you.”

Joly just stares at him, and Combeferre awkwardly stares back, and god, why not. Combeferre carefully leans forward and kisses him, nothing but a soft press of lips against lips, but it still sends a singing jolt through Combeferre’s mind.

It’s a short kiss, but when Combeferre pulls away they’re both obviously stunned.

“May I take you to the party tomorrow?” Combeferre asks. This is bizarrely formal.

Joly laughs, less natural than usual, full of nerves. “Actually no because we’re hosting this year? Um. You could come early, but then you have to help with the decorations and-”

“I’d like that,” Combeferre says firmly. “I want to help.”

“Then I’ll see you an hour earlier than the party starts,” Joly says.

Combeferre frowns. “It takes more than an hour to set up for the party.” They do not take the yearly _Fuck It’s Cold Out Let’s Get Drunk_ party lightly.

“Not for boyfriends,” Joly says, and almost runs out the door, walking away so briskly a loose paper flips off a countertop and into the air.

“Boyfriend,” Combeferre repeats, and maybe it’ll make more sense later. He needs time to process.

He also needs time to do that humiliating squealing thing because this is by far the best surprise that could ever happen on Christmas.

When Combeferre walks home, he doesn’t bother taking the ridiculous antlers off of his head, and jingles all the way.


End file.
